


All the King's Horses

by Simarillion



Category: Hannibal (2001), Hannibal Rising (2007), Red Dragon (2002), The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simarillion/pseuds/Simarillion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a new serial killer on the move but who is going to stop him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Malakai_Amlug
> 
> Disclaimer: None of the herein featured characters are mine and therefore I do not make any money with this story. They rightfully belong to Thomas Harris and DeLaurentis Pictures.
> 
> Notes: For all the people waiting for a relationship between Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter, you are reading the wrong story, this is a slash fanfiction. For all the people reading this and waiting for a PWP, you should move along at once, this is a very plot heavy novella. By the time you reach page 50 you will be sorely disappointed about the lack of smut. For people loving happy endings and meaningful love declarations, move along, this is a very dark story. None of my plot heavy stories (written or orally told) have fluffiness and cuteness in them. For people with weak nerves or people who are easily offended, don't even start, this story will contain (as already mentioned in the warnings) violence, gore, bad language and politically incorrect behaviour and comments.

__

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall  
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall  
All the king's horses and all the king's men  
Couldn't put Humpty back together again

 

Clarice Starling was on her third cup of coffee that night. The black sludge tasted worse with every sip she swallowed but she needed the drink's caffeine to stay awake. An undesired side effect of the coffee consumption was the restlessness she felt and the inability to concentrate properly on the pictures and the reports in front of her on her desk.

After the incident with Mason Verger and Hannibal Lecter's second escape she had thought she'd be discharged from the FBI, but surprisingly Jack Crawford had pulled some strings and enabled her to continue working for the government. It was amazing that even a retired Crawford was still a force to be reckoned with in the FBI. There was the talk that he would come back. How much of these rumours was based on actual facts and how much of it was invented remained to be seen.

There was the feeling of a slight burn just behind her eyeballs and Clarice closed her eyes. Pressing her thumb and her ring finger against the eyelids, she tried to concentrate harder. The photos in front of her were mostly polaroids from that night's crime scene but a neat stack of photos was resting on the side next to the two case files. The older photos showed a crime scene from Baltimore six weeks ago.

After the first victim had been found the police had not been sure what to make of the violent death. The victim had been a middle-aged Caucasian male of the east coast upper class. Dr. Martin Bainbridge had been a renowned psychiatrist and his clientele consisted mostly of notorious high society members. The doctor's assistant had found the body in the morning when preparing the office for the day. The police at first thought it had been one of the doctors patients that had committed the crime but nobody turned up with any real motive. It hadn't really helped that most of the suspects interviewed had had watertight alibis.

After some more investigating the doctor's private life it had turned out that the happily married man had frequented the local gay clubs. The next theory had then of course been that maybe a jealous lover or maybe some hustler had killed the victim. So far no progress had been made.

All these theories had been come to nothing when the second victim had been found. At first these two people didn't have anything in common. Gordon Livingston was an African American in his mid-twenties. He was the owner and chef of one of New York City's most popular restaurants. He had been in his own way a celebrity and his fame was cemented by the various cookbooks and restaurant guides he had written. Although the young man had not been around for a long time many of his guests were stars and celebrities. Unlike Dr. Bainbridge, Livingston had been engaged to be married to a medicine student.

Comparing these two victims, the only similarity was the MOD. Both of the men had been attacked with a knife at first. There was a straight cut from the left hip to the right side of the ribcage. Afterward the victim's head had been smashed to pulp with a blunt object. The murderer had not brought his weapons along; he had made use of the tools he found at the scene.

Dr. Bainbridge had been cut with a sharp letter opener, the edges of the wound had been torn. His head had been smashed with a glass award that had been standing on one of the bookshelves. It had been an award for one of his publications. Mr. Livingston had been attacked with a large kitchen knife, his head caved in with a meat hammer.

The photos from the kitchen where the second victim had been found were scattered all over the desk in front of Clarice and she randomly picked one of them to take a closer look at it. It had been her day off, but when the second body was found it became clear that these two deaths were connected and that a serial killer was out there. Unfortunately of all the people that took care of cases like this she was the only one available and already working in New York. That was the reason why her phone had rung at one in the morning.

The crime scene had been very different from the photos in front of her and she tried to recall details that were not visible on the pictures. She wished she knew more about the first murder. The case file was resting next to the stacked photos from the other crime scene but she had yet to read it. So far she only knew the information from the New York Times and the Sunday Herald. Since it had been said to be a crime of passion or revenge she had not bothered to get more information.

Putting the Styrofoam cup down, she leaned back in her office chair and closed her eyes, going through the crime scene in her head once more. The room had been cleaned after the restaurant had closed one hour before the body had been discovered. In the kitchen was no trace of any break-in which indicated that the murderer had been inside the premises already at the time the victim had been on his own. The second possibility was of course that the murderer was a skilled picklock. She desperately hoped that the latter was not the case. If Livingston's murderer had already been inside the restaurant at the time the last employees left, there was always the possibility that somebody might have seen him.

The body had been lying between a workspace and a row of kitchen cupboards. The angle of the body indicated that the attacker had pressed the other man against the cupboards as he cut the stomach open. The body had been found lying on the side, intestines spilled next to it. Apparently the dying man had been sitting against the cupboards and the murderer had pushed him down on the floor to smash the head with the meat hammer.

Both weapons had been found lying close to the victim and the first dusting at the crime scene had not revealed any finger prints. The murderer did not only know his fair share about lock picking but he was very careful not to leave any trace as well. Forensics had had a field day with the whole kitchen but so far anything worthwhile had still to be found.

Her stomach churned and Clarice noticed that she had had three cups of coffee but no food so far. Tiredly, she stretched her legs out under her desk. She had hoped to have a nice extended weekend since she had taken the Friday off but her plans for relaxing and cleaning her apartment had been put on hold with the phone call she had got tonight.

Clarice rolled back from the desk and got up from the chair. She grabbed her wallet that lay on the manila folder of the first victim and headed out of her small office. Considering the late hour the department was surprisingly populated. Most of the people had been roused from their beds to take a look at what most of them had could have done without.

A thin man in his early twenties sat at an overcrowded desk and read a thick file about the employees of the restaurant. His eyes were bloodshot and he blinked rapidly as if he was going to fall asleep at any time.

"Jones, how about you join me for some better coffee than the sludge around here and a bagel at the deli around the corner. You can tell me what you found so far." Clarice tapped against the desk of the young agent and watched him nod tiredly.

The sheets of paper where heaped on top of another folder and Jones opened the top drawer of his desk, taking out his wallet and ID badge. Robert Jones was the newest member of the department. He was fresh out of Quantico and still eager to prove himself. That was probably the reason why he had stayed after his last 24 hour shift to work on the Livingston case. He slipped his valuables into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and got up from his chair.

Clarice wove her way through maze of the cube farm, her high heels clicking sharp on the floor. She saw Bernice Crowley on the phone and waved at her. The other woman waved back and give her a high five. Clarice decided against waiting for the woman to finish her phone call and headed for the exit. The door opened as two officers entered. Jones reached out from behind her to hold the door open. The polite gesture surprised her from somebody of his generation.

The corridor was empty but the noises from the office behind the doors could be heard out here. She tugged at her blazer and buttoned it closed. Clarice glanced at the young man walking next to her and wondered if she had ever looked so young and ambitious. She knew that she had been ambitious when she was called in early from Quantico to help Crawford with the Buffalo Bill case. She had been convinced that she was cut out to make a career. Things had turned out differently though.

"How long have you been on the shift now, Robert?" her question sounded strangely loud in the corridor after all the noise in the office.

"29 hours more or less. The chief said that whoever was not too tired should stay and help." A hand rubbed overexerted eyes.

"You should try to get some sleep soon. If you fall asleep at your desk you are no help to anyone. We won't catch him tonight or the next 24 hours. He's too clever for that."

Jones reached out for the entrance door and opened it for her. "Why do you think it was a man? From all we know so far it could be a woman as well."

"No, this one is no woman. Something about the way he kills them … it would have to be a very strong woman to pin the man against the cupboards with one arm while gutting him like that. The way the victims head had been worked at, that was no woman, believe me."

The tempertature outside was falling as the Indian summer drew to an end. Soon the rare drizzle would be replaced by the pre-snow rainshowers of the late autumn. More rain, more dirt, more possibilities to leave a trace. Clarice had realized that she had become rather pessimistic. But even in the deepest shit there was always something good. She was convinced that there would be another killing before they would be able to get more on the murderer of Livingston and Bainbridge.

The walk to the deli was brief and the light in the small shop was in stark contrast with the inky night outside. The shop was empty except for the waitress who sat on small barstool at the counter. Her back was to the entrance door and she flipped through the personal columns. She never turned around as Clarice and Jones entered and sat down at a table in the back corner.

The radio was switched on and when Britney Spears started to sing about her loneliness and her need to be spanked, Clarice rested her head against the back of the chair.

"You should try to get more sleep as well, Agent Starling." Jones blinked owlishly at her before he realised what he had just said. "Please excuse my forwardness."

"It's okay, Robert. I know that I am too tired to be of much use, but I will have to stay for some more time. This is something new for the team but not for me. I can help." Clarice tapped the menu card against the table. The paper had long ago lost its firmness; its edges were torn and grey from age.

"What was it like the last time?" Jones' question seemed to blurt out of him before he was able to stop.

The admiration and worship in the young man's voice made her feel queasy. She didn't like to talk about what had happened with Buffalo Bill. She still felt in some way responsible for Lecter's escape.

Clarice response to the question was delivered in a toneless voice: "Last time was different."

"Crawford got you on board to work with him, didn't he?"

"Yeah, he did." Clarice saw a movement in the corner of her eyes and looked up to see the waitress stroll to their table. The bright yellow shirt she wore was emblazoned with the name of the deli. Clarice didn't like to talk about Crawford either. There were not many things that she liked to talk about and none of them were work related.

She placed her order and waited for Jones to place his. The young man was very thin and with the wire glasses he wore he looked like some computer geek. She wondered if young men like Jones all looked like this. Geeky, too thin, ambitious and too green to understand the world they were living in. She hated it that she had become so world wary. She was not old but she felt like there was a whole world between her and Jones.

"So, what did you find out about the employees so far? Anything useful?" Clarice asked, more to change the topic of the converstation. She was not particularly fond of Crawford or her past with him.

"Not really. Some of the casuals are illicit workers, but then again most restaurants are rather lenient about things like working permits and contracts. I checked the backgrounds of the people who had been in the restaurant today and I also looked for connections to Baltimore. There are none. The doctor never ate in Livingstone's restaurant and Livingstone never visited Baltimore. There might be upper class friends of the first victim that know of Livingston, maybe some ate in his restaurant, but no real connection between those two so far. I tried to find out from the files if any of the working staff had been working in Baltimore in the past. Again negative. The victim employed mostly Latinos and Asians and he employed locals, no people moving from Baltimore to the Big Apple to work for him."

The lack of a connection came as no surprise. It would have been strange to find the link between these two murders that easily. Their serial killer was too clever for that. But some connection had to exist otherwise the murderer would not have picked these two in particular.

"What is your opinion about the two killings, ma'am," Jones curiously inquired. For a green rookie like Jones, Clarice was an idol. She had been with the Bureau for years and beside her trouble some time back she was a very good agent. One of the best.

"I think that the two victims knew the murderer. There were not enough signs of a struggle. There was no sign of a break in, so I am hoping that the murderer was already in the restaurant at the time the kitchen was cleaned and closed down. Maybe somebody remembers something or some person. Besides that, I can only make assumptions. From the precision of the cuts and the strength the person displayed, I assume that the murderer is muscular and has some kind of medical training."

"Or martial arts."

"Excuse me?" The sudden input had surprised her. Clarice looked at Jones and saw the excitement in his eyes. No, she had never been this young and ambitious.

"He doesn't necessarily have to be trained in medical science. The way he cut the stomach open reminds me of the seppuku ritual. In medieval Japan the knights were called samurai and the usual way of faring a war was that the two rivalling samurai clans met each other on a battle field. Once the battle was over the surviving samurai of the defeated clan committed seppuku. It was said to be the honourable way of dying after having been denied death in battle. Later on this sanctioned suicide method was also a way of regaining one's honour. The thing about the seppuku is that the warrior used a short sword or a special dagger for it. He cut himself open from the hip to the ribcage and, if he was still able to, from the ribcage to the hip from the other side. The whole ritual ended with the samurai cutting his throat. In most cases they were not able to do that anymore and therefore they had seconds that cut off their head."

"You know quite a lot about that. Did you read it all up?"

"No, I am learning Kendo. I started in high school but during my time at Quantico I didn't have time or the possibility to continue. I restarted only recently." He looked to the side as if his hobby or his knowing things was embarrassing.

Clarice stretched her legs out and relaxed slightly. This concept was not really what she thought to be likely but she ought to take a look at everything they found. One could never know what would lead to the conclusion of the case.

"I never heard of this before. Sounds horrible. Do people still commit suicide like that?"

"No, it's actually forbidden by law in Japan. There have been cases of seppuku though in recent years but not many. It is actually a very painful way of ending ones life. It's not recommendable. There is a description of the ritual and an explanation about it in a classical piece of Japanese literature, the Hagakure, which describes the way of life, the duties, and the virtues of a samurai."

Jones's impromptu history lesson was interrupted by two persons. The waitress brought their coffee at the same time as Bernice entered the deli. Her pewter grey curls were in even more disarray than usual. She was one of the people who had been called out of bed in the middle of the night.

The waitress watched dispassionately how the newcomer joined the occupied table, then took her order.

Bernice Crowley was one of the rocks that kept the office upright. She had transferred from L.A. to New York in Crawford's last year. She was one of the few persons that didn't take any shit, not even from Crawford himself. Clarice had been very quiet at the beginning of their acquaintance, but the older woman was nothing but persistent. She hadn't allowed her colleague to hide and had made it to some kind of mission of hers to break through Clarice's walls.

Sometimes Clarice missed her friend Ardelia Mapp when talking with Bernice. Both of her friends were very strong women that were able to ground her should she get lost somewhere up there in her head. But Mapp had married and was now a mother of baby twins. From time to time they called each other just to say hello and how are you, but they rarely met each other.

"Crawford called," was Bernice short and to the point welcome to her colleagues

"How did he find out about it so fast? Even the media hasn't featured anything about it yet."

"Beats me how the old bugger found out. He should stay in retirement and keep from meddlin'," she said. Bernice sometimes seemed gruff to people who didn't know her. The truth was that she never said things different from how she saw them. She was just honest. Sometimes brutally so.

"I think Brigham called him once we got the call. I think he wants Crawford to come back or at least take a look at things." Clarice replied.

Jones had been listening in on the conversation with interest. He tried to hide it by sipping his coffee and glancing at the waitress sitting at the counter from time to time. Clarice hoped that Jones would never have to do undercover work. He was a bad actor. He should stick to history; he made a far better lecturer.

Another coffee mug was put on the table and the silence at the table stretched. Clarice wondered what Crawford intended to do. His retirement had come as a surprise to a lot of people and even more believed he would pick up any day where he had left off. In her own opinion, the Bureau was a better place without her former superior. His record of solved murder cases was impressive if nothing else but it came at a high price. Crawford had a high wear and tear of manpower. His favourites never lasted long. When thinking about her predecessor in Crawford's high esteem, Clarice was actually proud about how she had handled everything.

Should Brigham have called Crawford he had definitely hoped to lure the retired head of Behavioural Science back to work. Though, the big question was if the other could be tempted that easily.

"If we don't find anything on this one soon, Crawford will not only think about coming back, he'll definitely kick our asses. The lack of progress will make him very unhappy." Bernice's voice was tight as she spoke of what the two of them hoped would not come to pass.

Clarice sipped some more of her café latte. She dreaded the panic that was going to start once the media started to feature tonight's murder. She didn't like the press and their greed for sensation.

"If you are asking me, Brigham is just too big a coward to do this on his own. He thinks that somebody who can't lose no matter what happens is far better suited for the case. The big boss is just anxious that he can't solve this fast enough. More deaths would look bad on his resume. He's aiming for a political career, did you know?"

"No, I didn't know." Clarice doubted though that there was anything that she actually wanted to know about her superior.

"They say that should this freak kill more and should the evidence be as sparse as with this crime scene, they'll bring back all they have. They're just crazy. I'm telling you." Clarice noticed the way her friend folded the empty sugar bag next to her cup. She had to agree with her, this was not only crazy, it was frightening.

"What does that mean 'They'll bring back all they have'?" Jones' curiosity had gotten the better of him. "Who do they want to bring back?"

"Bloom for one. He's in Québec now. Teaches there at some university. Crawford they want to have back the most. Clarice they already have. I don't know, I think that's the best there is."

"We'll see what happens." She didn't like the direction this conversation was going.

"Well, with Crawford back, they have the most experienced and skilled agent back on board, don't they?"

"Crawford is not the best." Why was it that it always came to this one name? "Lecter is, was the best."

The silence that followed her statement was heavy and oppressive. Nobody liked to be reminded that whenever there had been trouble, the last resort had been to ask the doctor for help. It was just too disturbing that the FBI needed to employ the help of a madman to deal with other murdering lunatics.

"Lecter, Hannibal Lecter?" Jones was the first to brave the uncomfortable silence. His youth would not allow him to not ask questions. Even if the topic was usually avoided and by some considered a taboo.

"Yeah, he was …," Clarice started to say.

"A freak, that's what he was." Bernice flicked the neatly folded sugar bag into the ash tray and impatiently tapped her nails on the table top. For some it was easy to give the right answer this fast and precise. Clarice was not one of them. She did not think that she would be able to describe Dr. Hannibal Lecter in one word only. She was not sure if she could describe him at all.

"He helped with Buffalo Bill, right?"

"Yeah, and with Dolarhyde and Hobbs before that." Clarice wanted to talk about something else. She really didn't like talking about Lecter. It made her feel guilty.

Bernice had noticed her mood change but couldn't help but add: "Yeah, before he helped Special Investigator Graham to his new career as an alcoholic and himself to freedom. Fucking prick."

The silence after this comment had more to do with the lack of a response than with the topic. Clarice tore her croissant into tiny pieces without eating any of it. She was not hungry anymore. Eating and Lecter at the same time were two things that just weren't compatible. At least not for her.

"So they won't be calling Graham back in either?"

"Naw, not if they want this case solved. Nobody really knows if he's still alive or if he's just lying in his house in Florida, passed out from all the drinking. I don't know if anybody is actually still in contact with him."

Clarice knew that Bernice was right but she still did not like the sound of it. Sometimes she pictured her self in Graham's shoes. It was easy enough and most of all it was something she could sympathise with. Just drinking until there was nothing else but the alcohol. No guilt, no fear, no doubts. It sounded quite liberating

The coffee in her cup was cold already. The croissant was unrecognisable as such. She pushed the serviette and the cup to the side and picked the discarded menu up again. She returned to playing with it.

There was the sound of the entrance opening and then foot steps accompanied by voices. Clarice didn't need to check who had entered to recognise the newcomers. Apparently their trio had not been the only ones in need of fortifying. The second group of FBI agents picked their table at the other end of the deli. The waitress was once more forced to stop reading her newspaper and serve the new guests. Judging from her grimace, she was not very happy about her nightly business.

Jones set his empty mug aside and dug into his pocket. He leaved through his wallet and produced the amount of money needed to pay for the coffee. "I'll go back to the office. The sooner I finish reading these files the sooner I can go home and get some sleep," he offered as his parting words.

"These files are still going to be on your desk after you had some sleep. Don't overdo it." The only answer to this was a weak nod. He would not go home. He would stay to read the files first. Clarice found it harder still to believe that she was this dedicated and enthusiastic once herself.

"Crawford asked about you." Clarice never took her eyes off the retreating form of Jones but she listened closely. "He talked to me on the phone, said that he was disinclined to converse with an idiot like Brigham at this time of the night – well morning would be more appropriate. He's talking some artsy fartsy English, all big words and the like. He knows how I hate that, stupid idiot. But he sounded concerned. Not only about the killing but about you. He asked a lot of questions." The underlying question in the last sentence was not to be overheard.

"I'm alright, Bernice. I just have a lot on my mind."

"A lot with the name of Dr. Hannibal Lecter? Don't think I didn't notice how you react when somebody mentions something even remotely connected with this lunatic. What is it with him and you?"

What indeed was there? This one question had tormented her for so long a time. She honestly didn't want to know the answer to it. She would not like it. People like Crawford, Mapp or Bernice did not have the same problems she had. They didn't have Dr. Hannibal Lecter, MD somewhere inside their head, whispering maddening thoughts and suggestions to them. Some people suffered from migraines the way she suffered from the doctor. But there was no pill to help her cope with that problem and take the agonizing pain away.

"It's just difficult to forget. That's all."

"Clarice, don't be offended, but I think that this is bullshit. You say that it's, what ever it is, difficult to forget but honestly I don't believe that you even try to begin with. You love to wallow too much in the past and in some perverse kind of way you love the guilt you are feeling."

Clarice glared hard at the entrance door of the deli. Her jaw was starting to hurt from all the tension in the muscles. How could Bernice say something like that? It was not true. She did not wallow and she did not love to feel guilty. She hated it. She really wished that she would be able to forget about it or at least that she would be able to forgive herself. Bernice was wrong about her.

"Now, don't start with this petulant look of yours. I had a dog once. He was a nice and well-behaved beast but from time to time he got that look that clearly said that he was very much against doing what he was told. I am sure nothing but beating him to death would have made him follow any orders. You get that look as well sometimes. It's not very becoming, I can assure you." The cup that was set aside was still half full. "I like you, as a colleague, as well as a friend. I think you are a good person but what you are doing is not healthy. Stop it, Clarice."

But how did one stop things that were out of control, always had been? Being honest with herself, she had to admit that Bernice's description of her was not as far off as she wanted it to be. Yes, she lived in the past sometimes. It was like taking out your childhood photos. The ones that were already fuzzy around the edges and that had a light yellow tint to them because they had been taken so long ago. You sat down with the box, filled to the brim with yourself, your family and friends from back then. At times like these you were allowed to get nostalgic and reminiscence about a birthday party you didn't even remember yourself.

Getting in this mood always led to the picture of her mother though. The memory of her and the kitchen. The way she had been standing at the sink and washing the blood of her father's hat. The simple action of cleaning the hat had become so ominous Clarice feared the very thought of it.

And thinking about this one night made her remember all the happenings that had come to pass as a result of her father's death. It made her remember Lecter and their talks about her past, her motivation to join the FBI. It made her remember the lambs and their screams. They hadn't stopped screaming yet.

Sometimes Clarice wondered if the memory of the lambs would already have faded if Lecter hadn't made her talk about it. A lot of her life might have been different if it hadn't been for Lecter. And that was what was at the core of it. Lecter had become so essential to her definition of herself that she couldn't just cast him aside like her friend did. Saying of Lecter that he was a freak or a lunatic might be a description of one part of him but it sure as hell did not describe his part in Clarice's life.

Looking back at the time she started at Quantico, she was ashamed of many things. For once she was ashamed of how naive she had been back then. At the age of twenty-four she had believed that she could change the world. She had been convinced that nothing would ever be able to stop her from fulfilling her dream and in that dream she escaped with her little lamb. She was getting on Crawford's team and would be essential to capturing criminals. She would be making her parents proud of her achievements. And most important of all she would be strong enough to face everything.

Once she had been investigating for Crawford, once she had already made Lecter's acquaintance, she had been foolish enough to believe that she would be clever enough to outwit the doctor or at least be intelligent enough to prove herself on a par with Lecter.

After Dr. Lecter's escape she had been devastated. She had got to Jame Gumb before he had been able to kill the senator's daughter but the price was the escape of the country's most dangerous serial killer. Nobody had blamed her. It had not been her who had been responsible for this debacle. At least the official version was that she was not to be held responsible but inside she felt like she had killed the guards, the medics and the tourist herself. She should have seen it coming.

For a long time after these incidents Clarice had not been able to confront herself with what had happened. The career she had before been convinced to make was nowhere in sight. No dreams, no career but a lot of guilt and doubts.

At the lowest point of her career she had met him again. The person that always brought a turning point to her life. Lecter's confrontation with Verger and Clarice's interference in this private battle of power had revived her. Once more she had felt the thrill of the hunt, the challenge of trying to catch up with your prey. Clarice was not sure what exactly she had hoped or imagined would happen once she found Lecter. But to meet him again, to hear his metallic voice and to be able to talk with him again…

But Lecter had fled once more. 'Would you say stop, if you love me you will stop?' No, she would not have him become someone else. What would happen to the person she knew; would he disappear? Very unlikely but it was something she was not willing to risk. She needed this one constant in her life.

"Are you still here with me?" Bernice was slouching in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest and her legs stretched out. Just looking at her friend, Clarice wished she could relax like that. "Jesus, you are frightening me, Clarice. Say something at least." The relaxed pose was abandoned. The first signs of tension were becoming visible in her posture.

"I am sorry, Bernice, I was thinking about what you said. I am afraid I didn't get much sleep before they called me. I am very tired."

"Uh huh. You got me scared, zoning out like that. Don't do any of this shit."

"I won't." Nothing more to say here. Both of them knew that it was a lie. It wasn't something that she did on purpose, it just happened. "Maybe we should go back. I want to read some of the Baltimore file and compare the photos. And I need to get some sleep as well."

Clarice opened her wallet and searched for the right amount of money. Too many old receipts and small papers with last minute notes were stuffed in together with the money bills. Note to self to sort the stuff out and keep order in the wallet. She hunted for a dollar bill but only found another old shopping list, listing bread and butter at the very top. It was like some friggin' mystery that a wallet always contained everything but the money it was made for.

Leaving their payment on the table next to their coffee cups, they left the deli and headed back to headquarters. Clarice felt her mind go numb as sleep crept closer still. Fuck, her stomach was close to rioting because of all the coffee but still her mind was unable to stay awake. "I think I'll stop drinking coffee. It doesn't help at all."

"Nonsense, what would you drink instead then, these artificial energizing drinks that are so popular with the kids?"

"No, probably tea."

"Heavens, why would you drink something like that? That stuff was never meant to be drunk. It's nasty." Bernice reached out for the entrance door and held it open for Clarice. She had a hard time not to think of the gesture as gentlemanly. "The next time they drag us out of our beds at such an ungodly hour, you drink this weird stuff instead a cup of coffee? I'll believe it when I see it."

"Well, over in Europe, the Brits have even dedicated a time of day to this drink."

"Yeah, well they are Europeans after all. They're supposed to do weird stuff. What do you think the reason for the Revolutionary War was about, huh? The settlers were really pissed off about the Brits shipping the nasty stuff to the colonies after they had run away from Britain to get away from it. Boston tea party, they did the only sensible things that can be done with that stuff, throw it away."

Clarice smiled softly at that. Leave it to Bernice to have her own take on history. She wished her own history teacher in High school hadn't been of the frigid type. Conservative and narrow-minded, not one funny bone in his body. She had never paid attention in class of course. It had never proved to be necessary though. What she was interested in she had read up on her own and the other stuff was just logics and trial and error. It had been enough to get a good grade.

The corridor back to the office was empty except for a small group of four agents standing next to the door. Curious and slightly confused glances were cast at the door. Apparently something unexpected had happened during her absence. She nodded to her colleagues in passing. Many had been more than unfriendly to her since her return to the FBI but she liked to believe herself above petty revenge or hurt pride. She didn't really care about most of them anyway.

This time it was her holding the door open for Bernice. She took an amused glance at Clarice and preceded her into the large overpopulated room. There was the typical tension and energy that always went together with an ongoing investigation.

"I'll get the most important things done and then I'll head back to bed. Get some rest as well, Clarice."

She nodded and strode through the narrow corridors between the separate cubicles of the open space office. She was glad to have her own office, small as it was. In all this noise she would never be able to properly concentrate. With the more difficult problems she tended to take her dirty clothes into the office and if thinking got too hard, she would grab the bag and head to the laundry two streets down. She wouldn't be able to sit on the washing machine but the sight of the clothes being whirled around in the tumbler calmed her.

She was just about to pass Brigham's office to her own as the door was pulled open and Brigham jerked his head to the side, indicating for her to come in. Clarice couldn't imagine what made him want to talk with her. He had never taken well to her staying with the Bureau. He would have liked for her to be gone for good.

Entering the office of her superior she realized what the reason had been for her summon. In the back, just behind the huge office desk in the middle of "the aquarium", stood Crawford. The former FBI Agent had his back to her as he studied the polaroids pinned to a large, white pin board. It was amazing and also disturbing how he could look so well-groomed at this time of day. Everybody else looked like they were the last survivors of some party but here he stood, Mr. Immaculate.

His back was slightly more bent than the last time Clarice had seen him. It had been his farewell party. The whole office as well as the headquarters from Washington and the Baltimore office had come together to give their great hero and leader the proper parting. On Clarice's part it had been more something along the lines of "good riddance."

Crawford's dark hair had lost none of its colour but it had gotten less. Seemed like he would be bald in the future.

"Hello, Clarice." The bastard wasn't even turning around; he continued perusing the crime scene photos like he was picking out the fabric for new curtains. Clarice stood facing his back, her hands crossed over her chest, her chin held high.

"Good Morning, Jack."

"Agent Starling, as you might probably have already heard we contacted Agent Crawford and he agreed to consult us and work with us on the case." Brigham was clearly uncomfortable with the situation here. His least favourite subordinate and the person responsible for her still working for him in one room with him.

"There have been rumours about Agent Crawford's possible return to the Force," was Clarice sole comment to this.

"Have there been?" This time Crawford turned to face Clarice as well. It was somewhat a relief to see the redness in Crawford's eyes, to see that for his attempt at perfection he was only human after all. "Well, we live to amuse our fellow men. It would have been a shame to disappoint all the people so concerned about my retirement."

Clarice tilted her head to the side and took a good look at the man in front of her. It was strange how her opinion about him had changed over the years. From the great hero to the great tormentor. How the mighty had fallen.

Crawford did not return her scrutiny. He stepped away from the pin board and sat down on the couch next to the desk. His eyes flicked from Brigham to Clarice and then he closed them. The other man took this as the sign to take his usual place behind the desk. Somewhat more content and mollified, Brigham sat down in his monstrosity of an office chair. The piece of furniture would never have fit into one of the cubicles of the cube farm.

She decided not to look at either of the two men and fixed her eyes on the left back corner of the office. There was a reason why this was called 'the aquarium' by everyone. All the walls were made of glass and if there weren't any blinds, Brigham would sit in here like a fish in a bowl. He'd most probably look like one of those bulge-eyed goldfish, gaping out and doing nothing. A goldfish that is in charge of hunting sharks. It was rather ironic.

Clarice felt her eyes start to burn again and hoped that this briefing of theirs would come to a closure soon. There were a couple of things she had to take care off still and stuff she had to take a look at before she could leave to get some shut eye.

When there was nothing forthcoming from either man she lost her patience. She really didn't feel like playing stupid power games with them. "Is there anything of importance you need of me, sir? If not, I would prefer to return to work."

"No, that would be all, Agent Starling." Oh, the venom in her title. It sounded like a wound that had started to fester and was causing pain whenever touched. She wondered, if this wound was visible would it have the slightly greenish yellow colour around the edges from the puss and the dead tissue or would it be bright red and enflamed? Should it start to heal, it would leave an ugly scar.

"Thank you, sir." As she reached for the knob of the door Crawford's voice made her halt her move.

"I would like to have a word with you later, Agent Starling."

She could actually feel Brigham's angered eyes on her back. The man was infuriated for being left out. Well, sharks liked to stay among themselves. What would a goldfish understand about their business? She understood full well why Crawford wanted to talk with her but to address her this bluntly in front of Brigham? The man would hate her even more now, most probably would hate her much more as the investigation progressed. Clarice suspected that the motivation behind Crawford's blunt move was to alienate her further from her superior. He needed her to be dependent on him. He liked to have his dogs on a short leash.

Clarice nodded shortly and hastened to get away to her own office. She wanted to finish as much of her work as possible before Crawford would leach himself to her side. Just some more time without the constant observation and manipulation of that man.


	2. Chapter 2

The kitchen was deathly silent. Compared to her first visit when the whole place had been swarming with police officers, FBI Agents and Forensic, the room had a completely different feel to it. The greyish light from the windows made it difficult to make out details but Clarice wanted to acclimate herself to the room before starting with the study of the crime scene. She needed to centre herself and find a connection to get more in tune with the place and the crime committed.

She crouched down in front of the outline were the body had been. Although the corpse had been removed the bloodstains had remained. The dark almost black blood had started to dry and was turning rusty brown. And there was much blood to look at. Clarice shuddered as she saw something that reminded her suspiciously of brain matter. It was dried and sticking to the kitchen cupboard.

The angle of the body implied that the victim had not fallen to the ground in this position. The intestines had been lying too close to the cupboard wall, the body practically trapped between them and the furniture behind him. She suspected that Livingston had been disembowelled standing upright. The marks of pressure on his throat had revealed that the man had been pressed against the cupboards by an arm against his throat.

Clarice stood up and took a step back. It was strange that there had been no sign of struggle. No sign was not entirely true. The victim's fingernail on his right hand middle finger had been torn out, the remnants hanging onto the skin. When forensics had tried to find any skin particles or blood from the attacker, the search had come up with nothing. By that it did not mean no skin or tissue samples from the murderer, but it meant that they had not found anything but the victim's blood.

From the looks of it the killer was not only intelligent, a pick pocket and stealthy but he also knew how to clean up after himself. This one was eerie. He made no mistakes and he was thorough. But everyone made mistakes one time or the other. And once he did Clarice would be there to get him.

The sounds from the traffic and the life outside were muted in the kitchen and Clarice wondered if anyone passing by the restaurant at the time of the murder could have been able to hear what was going on inside. Had Livingston been screaming or shouting or had he been too shocked to make any noise? Had he tried to talk to his attacker; did he know him?

The likelihood that the two, murderer and murdered, had at least known of the other's existence was there. The killer had planned all of it. He had had everything with him to clean up after the work was done. Who would carry the needed equipment with him for just in case? So how had the two been related? There was something that they had overlooked, some similarity between the good doctor in Boston and the chef in New York.

After her taxing and useless trip to Brigham's office, Clarice had put the photos from the second crime scene aside and had started to go through the files and photos of the first murder. Dr. Bainbridge had been very different from Livingston. His circle of friends had included only upper class members. Unlike the second victim whose acquaintances had varied from the creative pool to the intellectual, Dr. Martin Bainbridge had been a snobbish person who only allowed high society into his circle of friends.

Mrs. Cecilia Bainbridge, the wife of the late Dr. Bainbridge, had been a distant cousin of the Kennedys, twice removed. Harvard diploma and anorexic looks completed the image of the perfect little wife that a person like the first victim needed. Quite ironic though that the good doctor had lowered himself to converse and interact with the ordinary folk when buying his hustlers to satisfy his dirty little secret.

Clarice had pinned the pictures of both crime scenes on a large pin board. She had first put the pictures of the same crime scene together only to rearrange them again and put the photos of the same details from the different crime scenes next to each other. She had kept looking for the similarities beside the obvious. In both cases the murderer had not forced his way into the house. Unlike the doctor, Livingston had fought the murderer. Apparently Bainbridge had known the murderer or he had not perceived him to be a threat.

The lack of resistance on the doctor's part had led the police to assume that the attacker had been one of the homosexual contacts of Bainbridge. Why would the victim let a stranger that showed up in his office late in the night get that close to him without some kind of resistance?

These early assumptions had directed all the investigations at that time. With the new victim this assumption was moot though. Livingston had homosexual friends but from what had been found out so far about the second victim he had not had any relationship with a man. Quite the contrary, the mid-twenty year old chef was said to be very much a ladies' man. His list of ex-lovers was almost as long as the waiting list of the restaurant. Not every one of the victim's past relationships and affairs had parted in friendly terms but there was no past male lover that might have been a connection between Bainbridge and Livingston.

The biggest problem with these two murders was the apparent lack of connections between them. They lived about 193 miles apart. There was something that made the murderer travel from Maryland to New Jersey to kill the second victim.

Clarice had warily returned to the polaroids on her desk after her visit to the aquarium all the time cursing Brigham for calling Crawford back into service. She wondered if her chief received some perverse kind of pleasure from asking the former head of behavioural science to help out with this case. Considering the past animosity between Brigham and Crawford, Clarice couldn't think of any other reasoning behind this behaviour.

The polaroids of the first crime scene had not revealed anything new; they made it even worse; the Baltimore police had been not very thorough when taking the photographs. There was not enough information on the details since there were far less polaroids of the Baltimore scene. What had been apparent from the pictures though was that the doctor had been attacked while he was sitting in his office chair. The Baltimore police had been able to find blood on the dark leather chair. There had been even more blood in front and even next to the chair.

It was most likely that the murderer had attacked the man while he was sitting and then pulled him out of the chair and pushed him onto the floor where the victim's head been smashed. The surprising thing though was that the victim had seemingly not fought back at all. Clarice was sure that the doctor and his victim had known each other. There was no other explanation for it.

After she had pinned the polaroids to the pin board she had once more recalled her own mental pictures of the crime scene. Clarice knew that in her tired state her mental abilities would not be up to their usual standard but she wanted to recall the memories as long as they were fresh. She wanted to burn them into her brain so that she would not forget what she had seen afterward.

It was strange how every crime scene always had a piece of the murderer in its atmosphere. If she would have to explain it she would say that the person's aura tainted the room. She could still remember the feeling the aura of Jame Gumb had left behind at the places of his crimes. It had been different with Lecter though. Living in a basement prison that was full of insane criminals it had been the doctor's presence that had overlaid everything else.

The first thing Clarice had noticed when arriving at the scene of crime was that the atmosphere of the place was not like one person had intruded but like a horde of lunatics had camped in there. It frightened her a little bit to think that they were not dealing with one but maybe with two or more people.

There was the slight possibility that two people had committed the crimes separately. One killing Dr. Bainbridge in Baltimore and the other killing Livingston in New York, maybe two people at both scenes? But Clarice very much doubted that a group of strangers would have stayed unnoticed if they had suddenly invaded at the doctor's office and there was no chance that more than one person would have been able to hide from the restaurant staff that had been on the premises until shortly before Livingston's murder.

No, although her gut feeling told her there was more than one person involved, rationality reminded her that this was not possible. It was just one murderer and it had been the same one at both scenes.

Clarice had dreaded Crawford's visit while waiting for him. She was more than disinclined to talk, much less work, with her former boss. She did not really care about the repercussions their meeting would undoubtedly have. Her colleagues might not really care about whether or not Crawford singled her out. More attention on Clarice equalled less attention on them. But the real problem would be Agent Brigham.

The reason for her uneasiness where the former head of behavioural science was concerned stemmed from the past they shared. Clarice knew that Crawford did not actually consider her a friend but their past co-operations made them colleagues, not only in profession but also in shared experiences. She was sure that after Buffalo Bill Crawford had decided to stay away from Clarice for the simple reason that she reminded him of the Lecter fiasco. He had not publicly blamed her for anything but still she was one of the few persons who had gotten the full picture back then. She had known about his part in the investigations.

When things had gotten rough later Crawford had never contacted her. He was surrounded by his faithful and obedient staff, there was no need for a renegade like Clarice had become. She had never thought about contacting him herself. After his dismissal of her earlier she had not seen any reason to turn to her past hero.

Clarice had been very surprised about Crawford's interference after Mason Verger but she was not interested in questioning his motives. Maybe she should have paid more attention to internal FBI politics and about the more hidden structures and hierarchies of the Bureau. The truth was that she had not cared about much back then; she still didn't.

When Crawford finally deigned it to be the right time to grace her with his presence, her tiredness and exhaustion had developed so far that she was actually relieved the former special Agent showed up. He heralded the nearing end of the shift and the prospect of some more sleep before returning to work in the afternoon.

A new Styrofoam cup of coffee stood on top of an untidy pile of files and she sat on her desk, looking over the photos once more. She felt a sour burning in her stomach from the large amounts of coffee and she longed for some fortification of the food type. She was not sure anything that went down her throat though would stay there though.

The cube farm had started to empty as the officers slowly trickled out to get some rest before resuming where they left off now. As Clarice had headed for the coffee machine she had passed Jones' desk. The files he had been looking through earlier were sorted into neat stacks, index post-its and paperclips marking parts of interest. No, she definitely had never been that ambitious and precise. It bordered on anal-retentiveness.

But after sitting down on her desk she had all forgotten about the coffee as she went over the night; the pitch-black beverage cooled and lost the last of its appeal. Not only did it taste disgusting but it was cold as well. There was nothing to be gained by drinking it anymore. Whoever had come up with the saying that cold coffee made you beautiful must have been a raving lunatic. She ought to ask Jones and Bernice irrespective from the other for an explanation how this saying came into existence. It might prove to be very interesting and entertaining.

Crawford entered her office without saying a word to her. His eyes were a little less red but he still had the look of a person who was supposed to be asleep at this time. If it was anybody else Clarice would have felt compassion for the person but Crawford was not able to instil such feelings in her. She shot a short glance at the figure that was now occupying her office chair. As a hand rubbed over his right temple, Crawford eyed the Styrofoam cup on the desk.

"Brigham scheduled the media statement for seven in the morning." The trim frame of Crawford was slouching on the office chair and looking more comfortable than he had the right to. His eyes were fixed on the white cup in front of him but he did not reach out for it. He avoided looking at Clarice as well.

"Still four more hours to go. They don't have much to tell yet." She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling like a sulking child. She hated it that the former head of the behavioural science department made her feel so insecure at times.

"Brigham called right after the call came that there had been a murder similar to Baltimore," Crawford explained the question that had been hanging in the room without actually being asked.

"He wants to go into politics," was Clarice's statement. It seemed somehow out of context but they both knew that this fact could become very important.

"He did not even ask me to come, I offered to help." There was an edge to Crawford's voice, she did not like. He sounded as if it was a given that he would work on this case. He made it sound like there was no one else worthy heading the investigations.

Pride always precedes a high fall. And Clarice hoped, no, wished to be there when Crawford fell. It would be a satisfaction to see him brought down, no more of his lofty attitude. She would revel in the moment. It was not how one was supposed to behave towards your fellow man but with Crawford Clarice couldn't help these feelings.

All her ignoring his presence did not change though that Crawford was sitting in her office chair, ready to once more use her for his purposes. Clarice felt her jaw clench and she actively fought the tension that threatened to take over her muscles.

"We are fine, you didn't have to get involved. You deserve to enjoy your retirement." The last sentence was slightly sour with sarcasm.

"I will enjoy myself, helping with the investigation." Crawford reached out for a file on the desk and flipped the cover open. "One might get the impression that you are not too happy about my getting involved. Why is that, Clarice? Are you so worried about me, that something might happen to me?"

Clarice knew that Jack Crawford was aware of the dislike from her side. She had never been hiding it from him. She could still remember one of the few times they had met after her return to the FBI post-Verger. The way he had talked to her, completely disregarding his treatment of her in the past, she had had a hard time not to be in his face. At her icy reactions towards him he had accused her of being unprofessional and immature.

"I am not too happy with people who think that murder investigations are nothing more than an interesting past time, something to entertain yourself with. There is a killer on the loose who will not stop after the first two victims. This is serious work."

Her words only earned her a raised eyebrow. She did not have to see it to know that it was happening.

"As far as I remember I used to do this job for a longer time than you have been working for the Bureau so far. I think that I am very much able to decide about the seriousness of the situation." His fingers were splayed over the top page of the file but his eyes were trained on Clarice's back.

Clarice closed her eyes to ease the burning that was just beginning. Even at the best of times she was not able to go against Crawford's machinations, even less so now when she was worn out and tired after a long night.

"I am aware that our past co-operations were not the most enjoyable ones but I like to consider the both of us mature and intelligent enough to be above that and to be able to establish a productive working relationship."

The words stung. It was true that to other's their disagreements might look petty but then again they had not been involved, they didn't know the details and all their implications. "There's no ship like friendship," she murmured.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing." Clarice pushed herself away from the desk and stepped up to the patchwork of polaroids in front of her. "I will not let my personal feelings influence me in this case. I want to catch this fucking prick just as much as you or anybody else."

"I am glad that we agree on this, Clarice."

Her eyes scanned the pictures on the pin board. She really hated to agree with Crawford on anything. Clarice wanted to there to be no connecting points, no similarities between them. But of course since both of their lives revolved around hunting criminals their way of thinking had to be similar. It came with the job.

"I will be trying to get a team together that has some experience in this matter and that is also flexible enough to adjust quickly to new situations. I want you to be on this team. I think that it will be a chance for you to get away from Brigham, maybe even a chance for promotion."

This one word was like a dagger in her side. Promotion. When had been the last time that she had had the chance to get promoted? It was way back after her capture of Jame Gumb. Doors had been standing wide open then. The possibilities had seemed endless. Now there was nothing but the daily routine that at times was reassuring with its familiarity and at other times suffocating with its constrictions. There was no room for things like promotion.

Hearing Crawford trying to goad her with promises of recognition for all her hard work, she wanted to smack her former superior right in the face. How could he dare to talk like this to her? It had been Crawford's fault as much as anybody else's that she had had a hard time in the past. His words would have been tempting in the past – the very distant past – but he was too aware of how real life worked. She would not be fooled by nice words.

The office chair groaned slightly as Crawford leaned back. For the first time since the man had entered her office, she turned around took a good, long look at him. It was strange that she would feel more contempt and hatred towards him than to Doctor Lecter. Both of them were manipulative bastards, both of them had used her for their personal uses, but only Crawford had landed on her black list.

She noticed the soft wrinkles around his eyes and the heavy lines on his forehead. It suddenly hit her that Crawford was getting old. No, he had not changed that much since his retirement but in the past she had always had the picture of Crawford in her mind and she had not been able to see through it. But all of a sudden she had really seen what was in front of her.

Clarice wondered what her father would have looked like had he lived and not died that night. She wondered if he would have aged with dignity like Crawford, getting older but still owning the same presence and energy like before. Maybe he would have gotten ill and would have spent the rest of his life in hospital or at home, slowly wasting away.

As hard as she tried Clarice could not picture him one day older than the day when she had last seen him.

"I called Alan and he agreed to come down from Québec. I will talk to Jimmy from Latent. I think that once we got a team together things will start to get done." Crawford apparently thought his words to be reassuring or maybe even motivating, but Clarice's mind wasn't fully registering the small pep speech that had been given to her.

She forced herself to get a grip. The last thing she wanted to do was to zone out on Crawford. She did not want to be vulnerable in front of him.

"I will be back in the afternoon. I need some more sleep and I also need to contact everyone. We need to get the people here as soon as possible. I think that I will try to get Brigham to lend me Bernice Crowley as well. I like her complete disregard of ranks." There was a fondness in Crawford's voice at these words.

"I want to take a look at the crime scene once more. I want to get some feeling for the place and the person. When they called us in there was too much noise and distraction to get a good look at things." Clarice knew that theoretically she did not need Crawford's permission to investigate the scene further – if there was somebody that would have to give his consent for that it would be Brigham – but it was clear that the moment he had entered the office, Crawford had taken over control. There was no other way.

The permission was given like a king indulging a servant's folly. A slight nod of his head was all that was necessary for the former head of Behavioural Science to relay his message. This gesture was enough to make the earlier kindness towards Bernice insignificant and to re-establish their relationship. She would have hated to have to re-assess her opinion on Crawford.

Crawford stroked the front of his shirt down, eyeing his clothes critically. He sat up straight and turned fully to Clarice. His eyes scanned over her face as if trying to read what she did not say. She did not know if he had been able to find what he had been looking for or if he had not been looking for anything at all. He got up and once more straightened his suit. God forbid, Crawford's clothes should not be perfect.

"I will see you in the afternoon then. Good bye, Clarice."

This time it was her turn to nod as she watched him leave her office. From the back he looked the same as the first time she had met him. It was strange to once more combine forces with Crawford. The difference this time though was that they were on different sides, not investigation wise but concerning their personal opinions and preferences.

Clarice decided there and then that she would head to her apartment as well and get some rest. She could not concentrate properly anymore and she wanted to be awake and aware of her surroundings when she returned to this night's crime scene.

*

When she felt more acclimated in the kitchen, Clarice stood up and leisurely walked to the back door of the room. The double door led to a back alley that was mainly used the store the garbage and as a personal entrance. The doors had no real handle, only a knob that couldn't be turned. Right next to the door – on the outside as well as on the inside – there was a small magnetic reader for the ID cards of the employees.

Livingston had invested quite a large sum of his money in the restaurant. Everything from the upholstery of the chairs to the wine served and the electronic systems used was state of the art. Clarice wondered if the restaurant had made any profit at all. From the high expenses on long time assets and the salaries of the employees, she guessed that there had not been much money left.

She switched the light on. It took her some tries before she found the right combination of switches to shed some light onto the area she wanted to take a closer look at. The bright, bluish-white colour of the neon light bulbs made the whole room look like a laboratory. It gave an eerie feel to everything.

Clarice leaned back against the door behind her and took two, three calming breaths. She even went so far as closing her eyes to centre herself. Opening them again she pushed herself away from the door and slowly strode through the room. The workspaces were made of polished aluminium. They were easy to clean but it was also very easy to leave traces on them.

The lack of fingerprints or any other traces gave proof to the murderer's intelligence and to his caution. Any other person would have at least left some smudge somewhere on one of these many surfaces.

Her steps sounded loud in the silent kitchen, the small and sparse noises that penetrated from the streets outside was not even loud enough to count as a background noise. She had left her high-heels in the car but the rubber soles of her sneakers padded on the tiled floor of the room.

She avoided the area where the body had lain and scouted to whole room out. There were some traces of the black powder forensics used to get prints but besides that the whole room was spotless. Well, unless one considered the stains on the floor where the body had been. Somehow it seemed as if the body had just appeared out of nowhere.

The lack of any evidence was something that had not gone over well with the media. At seven in the morning Brigham had had his minutes in the limelight. The press conference was scheduled so that the morning programs and news reports were able to feature the story in gory details that were true to some part, but far more of it was made up by reporters that were only too eager to scare the people on the streets with tales of the boogieman.

At the same time Brigham had been all over the nation with his statement concerning the murder of Livingston, Clarice had slept deeply, catching up on the sleep she had missed during the night. Not being there live did not mean though that she had to miss her superior's press conference. When she got up at eleven, the TV stations as well as the radios had featured bits and pieces of the conference, reminding the people hourly of the dangers that lurked everywhere these days.

The public would be hysteric now. Clarice only hoped that they would find the killer before things would get out of hand. People had the tendency to take things into their own hands. A couple of more killings and there would be some community patrol out there that didn't ask questions before acting.

Clarice passed the blood stains by and headed for the door to the storage area. The door was of a heavy metal, it was designed to keep fire either in or out. She dug into her pockets and fished the magnetic card out she had been given at the office. Holding it in front of the reader she waited for the beep that signalled her that she could enter now.

The door did not only look heavy, it was heavy as well. She braced it open and slipped into the adjoining room. The darkness in here was so complete it was like stepping into a black hole. It seemed as if the blackness was sucking all the light out of everything. Clarice reached out for the light switch on the wall. The plaster was rough and felt dusty; she assumed that the walls had been painted with the white lime paint that was often used in cellars and storage spaces.

And then there was light. With a simple flick of her wrist she flooded the room with the same blue-white neon light as in the kitchen. The dry whiteness clinging to her fingers made her want the wash her hands. Instead she rubbed the fingers together. The white lime dust rolled together in grey strings, dropping to the floor.

The artificial lightning seemed even harsher and more disturbing in the whitened storage area. There were shelves along the walls with rows of shelves in-between. They were stocked with cans and glasses, bottles and tetra packs. As neat and organised the kitchen had been, as messy was the storage space. There was no dirt or anything but the goods were stocked without any apparent order or system. It made her wonder how people found what they were looking for.

The floor was tiled as well. In here complete silence reigned. There was nothing penetrating this room from outside. Not light and not sounds. Clarice slowly inspected the shelves. Except for the strange sorting criteria, there was nothing that caught her attention. She walked down each of the short corridors. There was nothing there to be found.

A sigh escaped her. She felt somewhat trapped in this room. All the concrete and the metal combined with the white walls made it feel like being locked up.

Just imagine walls like these everyday, no escape from the oppressive feeling of being trapped inside thick concrete walls and heavy metal. Even glass to look outside would not make it better. Windows would actually only make it worse. The simple thought of being able to look outside but never being able to venture outside, it must be pure torture.

Clarice could sympathise with ...

No, she could not – she would not, to be more precise. Some people deserved what they got. And even others were better locked away. Just because she did not like being trapped did not justify what Lecter had done to escape his incarceration. Yes, he had been locked up in some basement, behind dura steel walls, looking out at the freedom that was so temptingly flaunted in front of his face. Still he did not deserve pity, at least that's what she was supposed to feel. Now, if she would only be able to feel it for real.

Her jaw clenched, her teeth grinding together as the tension in her muscles increased. She had to get out. Out of the room and out of the kitchen. There was nothing here in this kitchen but Doctor Hannibal Lecter. But she knew with the same certainty as that it was not her committing the murders that the doctor had not killed Bainbridge and Livingston.

If somebody had asked her how she was so certain that the doctor had nothing to do with it, she would not be able to explain it. She just knew. For one there had been no sighting of Hannibal Lecter since the incident with Mason Verger. Without any difficulties the doctor had once more escaped the grasp of the FBI. She did not know what view he favoured these days but it was certainly better than the one he would have had from his cell.

She pushed the door open, her shoulders pressing against the metal with her whole weight. Leaving the enclosing space, she felt a weight being lifted off her shoulders. Switching the light off, she closed the door behind her on the black hole.

Clarice cast a last look at the rusty dark brown stains on the floor. Why couldn't this one make any mistakes? The longer this investigation would last, the more difficult it would get for her to keep on fighting her inner Lecter. She was afraid that she might not be strong enough.

And of course there was the matter of Crawford. The return of the big hero of the FBI made a lot of people happy or even hopeful. She was not one of them. She just hoped that Crawford would get the killer and disappear from her life again. It was not a great life but she could make her own decisions without second guessing all the time to what extent the decision had been hers or Crawford's.

At the personal entrance she switched off the lights of the kitchen. Once more she fished out the magnetic ID card, unlocking the doors and stepping out into the cool afternoon air. She was supposed to be back at the office. Crawford would give his "Welcome, I'm taking over" speech soon.


End file.
